


Like Cats and Dogs

by Writerboy (Hobbitrocious)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Animal Play, Bratty Sherlock, Collars, Community: shkinkmeme, Dom/sub, Kitty play, Light BDSM, M/M, Master/Pet, Nudity, POV Multiple, Petplay, Puppy Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6331114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Writerboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson attempt Petplay. It takes them a while to get it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted under the title "Proper Guidance" as a fill for a SHkinkmeme prompt, September 2010.

From the notes of Dr. J. H. Watson:

_... Holmes seemed a glutton for punishment. Were I to tether him in a corner or flick water in his ear, or any other deterrent I could so devise, none of it took effect. The man's innate stubbornness prevailed even in his dog-state. For as hard as I am aware he tried, Holmes could not bring himself to fully submit within a reasonable frame of time. In fact, his frustration with my reprimand would escalate so rapidly that our scenarios would be in shambles by the end; he reared on his knees and all but snarling, I having thrown up my hands and ready to leave him to himself for the night. He may have fancied himself an untrainable hound, but I had not the patience for it._

_When roles were switched, Holmes was also inattentive. Many were the hours I dutifully waited on my haunches beside him until finally moved to paw at his trouser leg for a bit of attention. He would look away only momentarily from whatever caught his interest, long enough to pat my head (at times with a smile, though more oft a grunt of irritation), then return to his musings. Even worse, I was rarely allowed to remain in the necessary headspace for long, what with his constant remarks that he would rather be the one in a collar, on the floor._

_For all our enthusiasm on the subject, we were incapable of canine role-plays together._

* * *

To say I was shocked to find such a personal passage had slipped from my notebooks would be an understatement; I felt positively scandalised when our landlady presented to me a page filled with my own words. I knew immediately it had been read. Bless her soul, but Mrs. Hudson never passed on an opportunity to be the first to know what my next published writing would entail. It made for lively conversation when her friends joined her for tea, to be sure.

She swiftly raised her hand to silence me as I drew a breath to either explain or apologise - or, more likely, to stumble over both at once - and what she said then was so unexpected that I had not the mind to oppose her suggestion.

"Doctor Watson," she said, "I've yet to read a work of yours based in fiction. Now, I'm not a literary one, but... I believe I have a few proposals to improve your writing."

And blasted if her proposals didn't make perfect sense. Imagine my amazement, discovering the kind old girl took to such gauche fantasies when presented them! I could only be grateful. The only obstacle left to her was to win over Holmes.

The entire thing was impromptu. Following our discussion, we marched straight for the rooms Holmes and I shared, she armed with a bowl of milk and I with the confidence that if this didn't work, nothing would.

Holmes spun toward us at the sound of the door opening, ready to regale me in some fascinating (I'm sure) deduction regarding the half-full test tube in his hand. The delighted energy drained from his face, replaced by suspicion, when Mrs. Hudson entered behind me.

"A little early for Gladstone's meal, isn't it?" Holmes remarked, eyeing the ceramic bowl with disdain. Mrs. Hudson had two sets of dishes, the older of which she encouraged us to use for ourselves and Gladstone now that, thanks to some ill-tempered fits, Holmes had made it an incomplete set.

"Oh, it's not for Gladstone, dear," Mrs. Hudson explained. "This is to be your meal." She stepped close enough that he could see the milk slosh in the bowl while she set it down in the least cluttered spot she could find on our floor. 

Holmes, in response, slid his test tube back among the others at his desk, well out of reach. "No doubt lovingly prepared with a touch of arsenic, isn't it, Nanny?" he spat. His eyes snapped to me then, Holmes obviously taking notice that I was waiting for something. I couldn't help flicking my gaze to the milk, and he followed it. I saw him regard its position on the ground, and the ample space on the nearby table. He looked to 'Nanny', then me again.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked.

Determined, I walked past Mrs. Hudson so that I could lean a hand on Holmes' shoulder and speak softly into his ear. "I think you and I can agree we cannot come to terms with each other wanting to be the one on the end of a leash. You, as well, cannot come to terms with obedience, with behaving properly. But I know you still wish to be treated as a house pet. Our dear Mrs. Hudson is willing to help us with our desires."

"You asked _her_ for help in the matter?!" Holmes scoffed.

I held myself from throwing an apologetic look back to Mrs. Hudson. I kept my eyes locked to Holmes' and answered, "She found out by mistake. She also had a number of revelations on what we may have been doing wrong, and I think her ideas are worth a try." I could not discern whether Holmes' stare was one of incredulity or absorption. "Are you interested?"

He sneered a bit, his ingrained distaste for our landlady of so many years still peeking through. "She thinks she has a better chance of training me than you did?"

"Actually," I said and smiled. "After reviewing some of what I've written about your mannerisms, Mrs. Hudson and I felt you might be more inclined to a feline role. Would you like to give it a go?"

Holmes' eyes focused on a spot on the wall, and I could practically hear his thoughts rapid-firing behind them. At length he said, with all certainty, "Yes. Yes, I would."

\----  
We assembled our collective dog-playing props before Mrs. Hudson in short order, both of us becoming more excited by the minute. I, for one, had high hopes that this would finally go smoothly. Holmes seemed already to be immersed in thoughtful planning, his eyes alight as he watched Mrs. Hudson lay out a few extra items she'd brought from her end of the house.

I momentarily feared Holmes would walk out on the whole thing when Mrs. Hudson insisted we undress. "It's unnatural for a cat to be wearing a man's clothing," she'd said. He did require some gentle encouragement, but, much to my relief, cooperated.

We stood before Mrs. Hudson on our knees as she collared us. She first slipped a length of thick, green ribbon around Holmes' neck and tied it like a lady's choker. During our discussion down in the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson mentioned wanting to put a bell on the ribbon, but I assured her Holmes would find the constant jingling most offensive.

Holmes dropped to all fours once it was tied, and Mrs. Hudson scooted the bowl of milk toward him with her toe. 

"I'd drink it before it spoils, if I were you," she advised. She moved to me next, brandishing the sturdy leather collar Holmes and I had bought months ago. It was a cool caress against my skin, and it was pulled snug before Mrs. Hudson buckled it closed.

She stepped away and allowed me to drop onto my paws. My fingers tucked beneath the palm, just as Holmes had his. I trotted the few steps to where Holmes was tentatively sipping at the surface of his milk.

Holmes spared me a glance, licking his lips to catch what started to drip out his mouth when he moved, before turning back to the bowl. Warmed by the sight of him taking to the scenario so quickly, I nudged my head into his side. I was proud of him for taking this chance, for trusting Mrs. Hudson. 

He acknowledged me by not pulling away and letting me nuzzle at him. If anything, I thought he was ready to purr.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a Wednesday.

Wednesdays were the day Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, and Mrs. Hudson all agreed to be their slowest. As long as Holmes had no case, and Watson no patients, Wednesday became their day to indulge.

Mrs. Hudson carried her breakfast tray up the seventeen steps and let herself in without bothering to knock. She found Gladstone sleeping peacefully beneath the settee, and Watson doing the same beneath the tea table, already out of his clothes and having donned his collar. Holmes was much more awake than the other two. At some point he had climbed atop his desk, and now sat poised elegantly on his mess of papers there, licking the inner joint of his wrist so that he could rub it over his face. He watched Mrs. Hudson disinterestedly as she cleared a spot for the tray and began setting out the dishes. 

Gladstone was used to being fed later in the day, so she brought nothing for him. He wouldn't wake for it at this hour anyhow. The ceramic bowl she did bring was filled with porridge, and she set it below the table, right where Watson could smell it. Before standing up again, Mrs. Hudson reached in to rub fondly on the scruff of Watson's neck.

"At attention, furry little soldier," she cooed. "It's time to wake up."

Watson rolled over, off his better shoulder, and faced her, smiling sleepily. Mrs. Hudson patted his head, then bustled over to Holmes with his portion. She now came to expect Holmes to leave most of it in the bowl. He was as finicky a cat as he was a man, only taking food when it pleased him _and_ was prepared to his liking. For as much as he genuinely enjoyed fish, for example, he would not touch it unless it had Mrs. Hudson's customary lemon and herb dressing. When it did, he would scarf it immediately, even lick every fleck of parsley from the bottom of the bowl.

Porridge was a different story. Sometimes it became a plaything for Holmes to dip his paws in, other times it would look appetising only from Watson's bowl.

Watson slurped happily at his breakfast while Holmes clambered down from the desk to inspect his own. Mrs. Hudson's shoe stroked up and down Watson's flank while she sat at the table with a plate of proper fare. She had not had her sight turned from them for a minute before she found Holmes at her side, standing on his back paws by leaning his front ones on the seat of her chair. Big, brown eyes tracked the eggs on her fork covetously.

"You have your own, Sherlock," she sternly reminded him. Watson managed to learn to stop begging for her food after a few good whacks with the newspaper, but deterring Holmes wasn't nearly as easy.

Denied, Holmes pulled back to the floor and began to mewl. The uncanny sound was heartrending even though he was misbehaving. Mrs. Hudson shook her head and sighed. She was getting used to Holmes' astoundingly accurate felinity, and was resolved not to give in to him no matter how endearing he made himself.

Watson, apparently, was not inclined to put up with it either. After a minute of snuffling at Holmes' shoulder, which Holmes quite ignored, one fast nip of Watson's teeth ended the meows in a yelp. Almost before Mrs. Hudson could blink, Holmes was between her chair and the wall, staring out and hissing at Watson. Intrigued by the frazzled thing he had cornered behind his mistress, Watson padded closer to the agitated Holmes.

"Here, now!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed loudly and clapped her hands twice. Watson obediently stopped in his tracks and laid down, resting his chin on his paws. Watson looked questioningly at Mrs. Hudson, then back to Holmes, who glared and watched him warily.

Mrs. Hudson bent down and stroked Watson's hair. "It's alright," she murmured. "You were just trying to keep kitty in line."

Holmes hissed as though he understood. Though, as far into his cat persona as he probably was, it may well have been simple jealousy at not being the one doted upon.

In any case, after she cleared the breakfast dishes and came back upstairs, Mrs. Hudson found her pets had reconciled by the time she'd returned. Both were rolling around on the tigerskin rug, nuzzling and batting at each other like younger puppies. Closer in, she caught sight of a shine on Holmes' shoulder where Watson had licked the bite in hopes of soothing it for him.

She stepped around them and checked the clock on the mantle. Nearly ten, they'd made up early. Holmes usually remained far too irritable to play until afternoon. Smiling and settling on the settee, Mrs. Hudson relaxed and watched them play-wrestle until they tired and Watson flopped onto his side with Holmes tongue-bathing himself and his hip pressed to Watson's back.

* * *

_Following our gracious landlady's intervention, Holmes appeared to have worked out most of his rebellious instincts. The guise of a cat allowed him more freedom in that expression, which I believe he truly could not suppress without practise._

_Our dalliances no longer involve Mrs. Hudson, but I remain grateful to her and still thank her in person frequently. Holmes is so much more manageable these days, and his acting the proper dog, I find, alleviates my need to act it in his place. I am wholly content now to have him as my pet, which he has delighted to be at all hours when possible._

_He takes very well to submission now that it has been taught him. As with any sizeable issue or change, he simply required time._


	3. Chapter 3

He's doing it again. Holmes is flaunting his genius at Lestrade and has gone so far that it's downright embarrassing. Even Watson feels a pang for the inspector, who has learned to shut up and let Holmes' mouth run its course if he wants to get off easy, if in fact he recognises he is being slandered at all.

" _Heel,_ " Watson hisses loud enough only for Holmes to pick it up with his acute hearing. Before Holmes can think, he is tucked against Watson's side, shoulder to shoulder, with his head bowed in submission. To the Yard men, it looks as though he still scans the ground for evidence. 

Holmes is perplexed when he and Watson keep walking but Holmes is not presented his customary treat. Watson leads him to the border of the crime scene - it's not an overly mysterious crime, no doubt Holmes has it solved already - until they are well out of earshot. They stop and Holmes paws lightly at Watson's jacket, close to the pocket he knows carries the tiny biscuits.

Watson returns his questioning look with one that says Watson is unamused, put off. Holmes drops his hands, still silently questioning.

"No treat, Holmes," Watson says with a long-suffering air. "You've behaved deplorably to the inspector, right in front of his men no less." He leans in closer, whispers in Holmes' ear, "How would you feel if your Alpha, your master, was dressed-down like that before you?"

Holmes' face becomes troubled. He obviously abhors the idea. He detests any person who would hurt his Watson, even in mere words.

"Now," Watson asks, tone still hard, "are you done here?"

Holmes nods, distracted by Watson's reprimand and unable to meet his eyes. Watson leads the way home, tipping his hat to the lawmen as he leaves.

 

At home, Watson prods Holmes up the stairs with a poke of cane to thighs. It's effective, and, by the time Watson is through their sitting room door, Holmes has already positioned himself next to Watson's chair, kneeling and waiting. From the moment he'd been told to heel to his master, Holmes has steadily been slipping toward that place in his mind that baffles even him. It is quiet there, peaceful. Even without his opiates, his thoughts are able to slow down in this place and let him drift into an existence where only his most basic needs matter. Those needs, in turn, Watson takes upon himself to meet entirely. Here, like this, Holmes hasn't a care in the world; Watson, his master, cares for him. 

Right now his master is cross with him, and Holmes knows that it must be with good reason. Watson only ever punishes Holmes when it is necessary.

Holmes stays still as he can while Watson slides his cane into the umbrella barrel by their door, peels off his jacket and hangs it under his hat on the coat rack. He takes off his shoes as well, and pads to his wingback in stocking feet. He looks down at Holmes' head beside the armrest and refrains from petting his mop of messy hair.

"Fetch me my slippers, Holmes," he commands. The room is still again after that, the crackle of the fire they have left burning since morning masks any sound Holmes makes as he crosses the floor on hands and knees. He shuffles back clenching his teeth around the ankles of worn leather slippers and deposits them gently at Watson's feet. With his nose and forehead, he nudges each slipper around so that they face the right way.

Watson slips them on, then spreads his knees apart. Used to this ritual, Holmes scoots in close between Watson's legs. Watson reaches down and begins to undo buttons, untie knots, and strip Holmes of his cumbersome human shackles. It all becomes a pile of cloth beside his chair. 

Holmes licks his lips when Watson opens the box sitting on the side table and lifts out the leather collar. They've had a tin tag stamped with his name, SHERLOCK, in crisp lettering and hung from the collar. It is the most satisfying thing Holmes has heard all day when the buckle clinks and the leather slides over itself as Watson secures it 'round Holmes' neck.

His paws on Watson's thighs, Holmes turns his wide eyes upward, expectantly. Watson sits back and silently regards him.

Holmes waits, anxious to find out what his punishment will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For now, this is where the fic ends. I originally intended to write more, but wrote myself into a corner with the punishment bit.


End file.
